Dun dun dun, the second chapter. I'll try to keep wakeful and such. Tokienite, thanks for the point out! I kept thinking it was Rivertown, and google wouldn't pull it up it would only give me Dale eventually. Laketown. So close. I'll fix that, maybe not tonight, but I will! And some typos I noticed...I digress. Awesome and Dragon...THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS. They're like verbal hugs, and then when I'm stuck at work all day and my phone sends them to me it's like a little slice of joy in my day. XD Anonymous...you are the straw that broke the camel's back. Detective!Smaug and Doctor!Bilbo as well

it is! And now to the story, enjoy!~

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Crack. Shatter. Crunch. Repeat.

The crack of wall plaster as a head was slammed against it, the shatter of glass as the owner of said head careened with a nearby shelf and vase, and the crunch of bones as Sherlock's fist delivered a punishing blow to the would-be assassin's face. Sherlock had planned the series of events in his mind, but didn't have much by way of time to be satisfied as the mercenary's partner immediately attacked.

Injured, end fight quickly. Opponent leaves openings on lower left side, organ damage preferable. Incoming kick, followed by roundhouse punch-dodge.

Sherlock ran through his situation and possibilities as he fought, rather aware of his predicament. The mercenaries were hardly experts...but they were still better than the cheap lot he was used to. He had been careless, perhaps, which would account for how he'd managed to take a long rake from a knife across his chest. Not too deep, but still in need of attention and bleeding irritatingly. This would not have been the case if John Watson had been present, but of course, John was occupied with his...fiance. Dreadful things, those. He could see it now, John Watson being stuffed silly with her baked sweets, growing complacent, having...children.

Sherlock didn't allow his mind to wander too heavily in the course of the fight, but he had thought things over in great length following his reunion with John. He had expected waterworks and a giant, mushy emotional welcome that he would have generously accepted and vaguely reciprocated. But instead, he'd been met with a moment's sincerity and a bucket's load of anger and accusations. Sherlock had only done what was necessary, he had protected his associates, and kept Watson out of the line of fire. Perhaps he ought to have mentioned that John, Lestrade's, and Mrs. Hudson's lives had hung in the balance but even so...

"Because you're such an expert? Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but once I wasn't caught up in your messes...it was considerably easier to hold a steady relationship."

His messes? As if John hadn't loved every life-threatening minute of it? And they had had a steady relationship. It wasn't as if a person needed more than one, and contrary to John's popular opinion, a sexual and, or, 'loving' relationship wasn't required either.

"Accomodating? Sherlock, you're not human!"

John had never really called him anything like a freak. Obnoxious, arrogant, annoying, and so on...but he had never taken a truly negative stance on Sherlock, rather, he had admired him. He had been one of very few people not to denounce him as a sideshow act, his...friend. And while Sherlock knew at least that they were just a bit of hot words spoken in frustration, such words tended to have a ring of truth to them. To some degree, John really did find Sherlock...inhuman. And the thought put an odd, clenching...sensation in his chest. John said he considered them best friends and family, so then why was that not enough?

Another blow came at him which he dodged easily before delivering what was to be a punishing kick to the side, but the mercenary had more skill than he'd given him credit for. The man dove down to avoid the kick and slashed at Sherlock's leg. A quick twist was enough to make the slash little more than a passing glance, but he wasn't about to give the other man another opportunity. He edged for the door, and more importantly, a little table with a rather heavy metal paper weight. The man darted forward, only to veer suddenly as his attention was attracted elsewhere. Sherlock found the distraction and shouted. "John, duck!"

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The taxi seemed impossibly slow despite meeting little traffic, and John's mind was a litany of morbid what-ifs as he rode. When he reached his location he all but hurled the money at the driver before he bounded up the steps of the little building. Oh, God, please let him be alright...just let him be alright... He didn't waste time with knocking as he ran inside, and the first doorway of the hall revealed the man he'd been looking for, although he heard rather than saw him first.

"John, duck!"

John blinked as adrenaline spurred his body into activity and he ducked down just in time to avoid an aerial knife slash. Instincts he hadn't been quite sure he still possessed kicked in as he charged forward and thrust his knee into the man's stomach as he grappled for the knife. He felt a nick on his hand as the knife scratched his hand. But before he could really get anywhere with the fight, he heard a sickening crack and felt his attacker's body go limp. Behind him stood Sherlock, holding a paper weight and visibly covered in blood despite his dark clothes. "Sherlock!"

His attacker forgotten for the moment, [not an issue since he was now quite unconscious], he covered the distance between them and peered at Sherlock's wound in concern. "Are you alright? Lift your shirt, let me have a look at it." he ordered with urgency. The wound didn't seem dire, but he'd made a quick judgment and force the stubborn detective into the hospital ward if he had to.

Sherlock waved him off. "There's no need, I'm perfectly fine. Minor scratch." he said dismissively as he jabbed a foot at the now unconscious attackers to ascertain that they were indeed out cold. "Excellent timing. Mycroft could not have planned it better."

"It is not perfectly fine, let me see." John insisted with a frown, willing to let go the fact that Sherlock knew right off that Mycroft had contacted him.

"As I said, there's no need-let go of my shirt-enough...John, enough. Stop."

John had been attempting to held himself to lifting Sherlock's shirt, but he stopped short as the detective spoke sharply. The two stared at each other for a long moment before John muttered. "I should be going, clearly you don't need me here. As usual, you've got it all taken care of." he started to turn by Sherlock caught him by the arm.

"I don't know what I've done to offend you, but I hardly think not being injured is something to be angry about. Rather, shouldn't you be happy that I'm only bleeding and not dying?" Sherlock pointed out, a bit puzzled when John suddenly blanched and jerked his arm away.

"You're too careless, Sherlock." John finally said, through slightly gritted teeth. "You've only got one life."

"I am aware." Sherlock said bluntly, and clearly that was again the wrong thing to say because John's eyes narrowed. Rather than give him the opportunity to scold Sherlock further, he turned suddenly and headed over to a corner to pick something up from behind a chair. He stilled suddenly, as though actually caught by surprise, before he headed over to John with a small frown.

"What is it?" John wasn't settled on matters, but Sherlock had a queer look on his face and he glanced at the other's palm. A plain-looking gold ring with a reddish tinge lay on said palm, and realization struck him. "The 'cursed' ring? So that's why...them." he pointed to the mercenaries as he worked it out before he looked back at Sherlock. "That's the ring, isn't it?" he asked, when Sherlock said nothing and continued to stare oddly at the ring. "Sherlock?"

"It's...warm."

"Uh...well, you are wearing a jacket..." John pointed out slowly.

"Not me." Sherlock muttered. "The ring. It's...warm. And it's...pulsating."

"Excuse me?"

"Impossible..."

"What is?"

"Unless it's a design of the ring...but the blood wouldn't be warm any longer.."

"What are you talking about?" But Sherlock wasn't paying him any mind, he seemed lost in thought, gaze transfixed on the ring as he muttered to himself John frowned before he snatched the ring from Sherlock's grasp and nearly dropped the ring when he actually felt it. The ring was warm, almost hot, and indeed it felt...as if it had a pulse, like blood flowing through veins. John breathed in sharply as he felt a prick on his hand, and he realized where the knife had nicked him earlier was bleeding slightly...and the blood seemed to dribble from his hand right...into the ring? "Sherlock, did you see that?"

Sherlock's eyes were just slightly wide as he finally met John's gaze. "There's no such thing as cursed rings." he said, as if to convince himself. It reminded John of the Baskerville case and Sherlock's panic when he was faced with something outlandish that he could not readily explain.

"Tell that to the bloody vibrating ring." John retorted as it suddenly seemed to grow hotter. "Ow!" he dropped the ring then, and it gave one sharp clatter on the floor before it simply fell as though shoved down rather than bouncing around for a second.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance before Sherlock bent to pick it up...only to have a bright light suddenly erupt from the ring, one that was hot and blinding and snatched away their senses. John felt as though his body were being pulled apart, a burning pain washed over him and he thought he might have tried to scream except that no sound came out. Or perhaps he couldn't hear it, he couldn't seem to see either, or feel anything really.

And then everything just went black.

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Bilbo rushed towards Lake Town, uncertain of how he could help but still determined to do so. That the people were presently in danger was entirely the fault of Bilbo and the dwarves. They had woken up Smaug and baited him, lured the townspeople into trusting them with sweet promises and honeyed words. But the truth was, it seemed that Thorin would let the whole world burn if it meant that he had his precious stone. Not even for Bag End, his much beloved home, would he sacrifice even a town full of strangers. Let alone his cousins as friend, as Fili, Kili, and Bofur were to Thorin.

He heard a terrible roar that made his blood run cold and sent a chill down his spine. Smaug hurled fire into the air, but he barely let the flames like Lake Town. He clearly intended to play with them, to keep the screaming, running people in panic before he burned them alive. And all to spite them and end the line of the one man who might be able to stop him. Bilbo thought again of Bard's children and pushed his small body to it's limit, till his lungs were burning, after he finally descended the mountain and ran towards Lake Town. Would he make it in time?

Would he live if he did?

"Agh!" A sudden pain over took him and he clutched at his heart as he misstepped and found himself barreling over a rock onto the ground before him. His heart was aching, clenching in his chest and his body started to tingle and feel as though it were burning. Was this Smaug's doing? He cast pain-filled eyes towards Lake Town, startled as he had looked up just in time to see Smaug suddenly veer downwards in a hard landing that shook the area a bit. Bilbo had no time to ponder it as he suddenly grew very tired, and he was lost to his sense long before his head hit the ground.

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ZzZzzzZz. Again...hopefully coherent. XD So tired. Fight scenes are always so...irksome. Unless you're watching them and then they're hopefully quite interesting. I digress. Next chapter, Dragon!Sherlock and Hobbit!John, and Detective!Smaug and Doctor!Bilbo. Thanks for the reviews, faves, and alerts...they brighten my soul and encourage me to write. XD Enjoy!~Witchy~